Beacons
A gull catches the last
ray of afternoon sun
slipping between the
clouds
a sky-salmon darting
through rapids
to find his way home.
A hundred miles from
the nearest coast
it relies on scraps
from the municipal tip,
the council duck pond,
the school playground
where the children are
no longer allowed crisps
but suck at glowing
nicotine sticks
behind the netball
pitch.
Chips outside the
betting shop
where the Belisha
beacon winks, winks;
rain-wet egg mayonnaise
from the supermarket bins
and yesterday's chow
mein
thrown up in the gutter
with that last, bad pint.
Why is it always the
last pint that's bad?
Why not the first, when
Dad can shake his head
and still find his way
home?
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